Posts Tagged 'crazy single girl life'

I’m so glad I’m not all Googley-Eyed and Ga-ga over you anymore, and I don’t mean that in even the most remotely shitty sort of way. I just mean, it’s nice that I can actually speak to you in full sentences now. It’s nice that we can have a conversation. We can chat about stuff like books and bands, and it’s not weird. This is all so much awesomer than that ridiculous crush.

Because, man, that crush was painful. I mean, not just in the ways that crushes are normally painful, but just the extreme level of awkward that it seemed to produce in me. This was way worse than just liking someone who doesn’t like me back. It was much more brutal than that. I sure hope that that doesn’t happen to me again, or if it has to, at least not any time soon. That probably was awful for you, too, but imagine what it was like to witness all that from my perspective, knowing that I was acting pretty dumb, but seemingly unable to stop it in any way.

So, thanks for hanging in there with me when it was all kinds of goofy and just plain fucking lame. I think you might actually turn out to be a pretty good friend.

So, you know, right after the “divorce”, I sort of went on a tear where I had to be having all the fun and the excitement all the time. I guess I had something to prove. Or more like I had something to reclaim. Running off to bars on a whim, Dodging personal questions. Oh wow, Tijuana. Dying my hair “Go-Eff-Yourself-Red”. And who could forget being kidnapped by a rockstar. You get the point. So, yeah, I would say that it definitely wasn’t that I had something to prove (well except maybe the hair) as much as it was about focusing on the positive side of finding myself in the position of being single, which was wholly unexpected.

These days, I reclaim this spot on the couch, mostly. Because right now, the best part of being single is the part where I get to sit here, and not do a damn thing I don’t want to do. I get to watch what I want to watch on TV, listen to this Imogene Heap album that I downloaded the other night as much as I want, scratch my butt, and best of all, have a cat.

Mr. Darcy

So, yeah, it’s Saturday night, and I’m not out on the town, and that’s not the slightest bit unusual. I’m sitting here trying to find a pair of shoes to go with a dress to wear to a wedding in a couple of weeks, because I’ve become a girl who goes to a lot of weddings. And Speak For Yourself really is a very nice album, and you should download it, too.

It may not be as crazy, but it’s me. Me being me with myself (and my cat) , and there’s nothing in the world better than that.

A couple of weeks ago, I added a post dated entry into my Google Calendar, an all day event set it to repeat yearly, and set to send me an email to remind me. No, it wasn’t someone’s birthday or anniversary. It’s not a holiday. It’s not a reminder to change the battery in my smoke detector. It’s not a note to take my cat to the vet. No, friends, my new event literally is called “The Day I Met the Next Guy Who’s Going to Ruin My Life.”

See, ’cause the thing is, I’ve been thinking about this idea of a ruined life. “He ruined my life.” Yeah, I’ve said it. Meant it, too. My life’s been ruined a few times. Not always, but more than once, by some dude. Something happens, and the whole thing gets turned upside down and rattled around, my stuff goes flying, my plans get thrown out the window, and every idea about what I thought was real or who I thought I was gets shitcanned. Some guy who three months ago swore up and down that he just never could cope with living without me suddenly does a 180 and dumps my ass. A bandmate sexually harasses me. I move for the five millionth time. I lose someone I love.

All those things suck. They’re unpleasant at best, and down right traumatic at worst. It’s the kind of shit that makes your life feel like a real struggle. It’s tiring, and it’s stressful. You second guess yourself, and you wonder what you did wrong five million times over. “Why doesn’t he love me anymore?” “Why did she have to go?” And then the what-ifs set in, and that’s when it really gets miserable. And if you’re me, that’s the point where you spend the next three months (who am I kidding, try two years) on the couch watching whatever the hell comes on TV, just so you don’t have to listen to what’s in your head.

But this is the part where I’m gonna fuck with your mind, because I have to say, it’s not necessarily a bad thing to have your life ruined. Sometimes the life you have ought to be ruined, the plans ought to be thrown out the window, and that idea you have about what was what deserves to be shitcanned. Because that ex, well, he was kind of a dick, and I kind of dodged a bullet when he dumped me. That old studio apartment, it was kind of scary when the hookers were hanging out on just the other side of a thin piece of glass. And that job? I sure as shit couldn’t stay at that job one more minute.

And that’s when you get up off the couch, and you do something different. You get a better job. You join a cooler band. You plant a rose bush. You meet a new guy who’s ten times hotter than your ex.

So, yeah, I met this guy. Right now we’re just friends. A whole lot of talking going on, and not hardly any action. And who knows what the hell is going to happen. It could never be anymore than what it is right now. In fact, I’m going to go on record and say that it is highly fucking likely that he and I will never be more than friends who flirt. Or maybe meeting him really will be the thing that ruins this life I’ve been living, one way or another, for better or worse, and I might have to start all over again.

But with or without this dude or any dude, life has a way of changing. Things don’t stay the same. They’re not meant to. You’re meant to get dropped on your head every once in a while. It’s just the way things go, and this shit, this shit right here, it builds character. It’s made me into the scrappy little smartass you see before you. And I really wouldn’t have it any other way.

OK – so I’m trying the online dating thing, again. Why? Well, two reasons, really. No, scratch that – three reasons. #1 – why the hell not. #2 – Sitting around moaning about a guy who already has a girl isn’t getting me anywhere and #3 – more than one person recommended I give it another shot, just, you know, Not Craig’s List. I’m also window shopping for kittens on the internet….. and honestly, those two things are virtually the same activity, except that the kittens have the common sense to avoid the following blunders:

“partner in crime” …. Don’t. Ok? Just….don’t.

People that say that they like all types of music, as in, “I like everything. Really!” are just afraid of commitment

ooohhhh….you have a motorcycle. Um, NEXT!

Why are you posing with a panther in your profile pic? And also, why did it take me so long to figure out what it was? (Is that a dog? Is that a bear? Wait, it’s a panther, isn’t it? wow)

I get it. You’re really into making the sexy with the women. What else are you into, horn-dog?

You have more than one photo of yourself in zombie/skull make-up on your dating profile….. You have more than one photo of yourself in zombie/skull make-up on your dating profile ……

Punctuation is your friend.

Why are there so many pictures of guys on top of rocks on these profiles? I guess every guy who goes on online dating is a rock climber. I wonder what the cause and effect is with that? Which came first – personality test or thrill seeking outdoors-manship?

You sent me a poem…a poem you wrote originally for some other broad. And it’s not even good. Ugh.

I’ve had enough of this weekend. It’s a good thing that it’s now going on midnight Sunday, so I can put it behind me. Have you ever had one of these where everywhere you go, everyone seems to be under some enormous pressure to be as weird as possible? Maybe one of you will tell me there’s some astrological event happening, and I’ll think it’s a coincidence…..or maybe not.

It all sort of started with me deciding to try to put Object of Crush behind me. At this point, it seems pretty clear that it just ain’t gonna happen. I’m ever more aware of the fact that he’s seeing someone else, and I just don’t do that “steal them away” thing. So, Friday night, out with friends, seeing The Phenomenauts, and there’s this adorable guy that I’ve known for some time, and well, I went for it, only to be slapped with the cold hand of rejection.

SIDE NOTE: I would like to take this opportunity to tell all of my friends who tell me that I just need to let guys know more bluntly that I’m interested and I’ll suddenly be getting my pick of the litter to Eff Off Real Hard! I now have proof that you are wrong. I will now go right back to chatting with the bean dip.

Any rate, top that off with a dessert of old friend telling me that some day he wouldn’t be so wrong for me, and when that day came, he was going to come for me, and I better watch out. (paraphrasing) He was kind of very drunk, so I don’t know how much truth there was to that, but it was sort of adorable. And then there was a whole lot of odd directed at Kayphore as well.

In between all these ups and downs, we danced, and that part at least was good. I still say that dancing is my favorite thing ever. Moving my body in a rhythm can almost always save me from anything. Also, sometimes I forget myself, and I dance like no one is watching and that is probably the most free I have ever felt.

Anyway, as I was saying, the evening was weird, so Kayphore and I didn’t waste any time in Busting a Move out of there, and made sure to fall asleep back at her place before any more “fun” could find us.

Saturday evening was even more fun, and involved some serious forced attention on someone dear to me who didn’t want it, some false information being spread about me, and then some bullshit guilt trip forced on me because once again, I did not know where to stand or what to say to just about anyone. I can’t say it was all bad. That bit about comparing making out to me with my new braces (oh yeah, by the way, I totally have a mouth full of metal and look even more like I’m half my age now. Score!) to kissing a toaster was genius.

So, today Kayphore and I decided to make that all up to ourselves with a shopping spree to Ikea.

And then we ate Indian curries, because that’s our idea of comfort food.

So, yeah, so glad that’s over with, and now I get to go back to work tomorrow.

I think I’ve mentioned before that I have a narrator. This voice in my head that tells me what’s happening to me, usually in real time. (Is it just me?) Most frequently the voice mimics Jane Austen. One too many re-treads through Mansfield Park, I think, did me in. However, the voice does shift from time to time from different influences. A book I’m reading, a song I like, or a movie I’m watching. Or, perhaps, the kinds of movies I’ve been watching.

Being as I am spoiled digital rotten, I have a Netflix account with a full DVD and Instant Watch queue. Lately I’ve been trying to make my way through all the films that were nominated for Oscars that I never did get around to actually going out and seeing. Also, I’ve sort of become obsessed with documentaries, because you have no idea how much stuff I don’t know.

So, I’ve been sitting here over the last few weeks – and by sitting here, I of course mean laying in my bed – watching lots of poignant shit. All the while with this Object of Crush in my head and all the ups, downs, and intrigues of a single girl’s life with single girl friends, and the well-intentioned but off-base remarks from male buds swimming in my overactive imagination. Well, wouldn’t you know it, but that voice in my head, well it’s a mix of some sort of indie movie heroine and, well, Morgan Spurlock…you know, the guy from Super Size Me, except this is more like his television series 30 Days.

And it’s like there’s a hidden camera crew following me around for a month while I trip, stumble, start, sprint through my life, which though very mundane and not a very good plot for a movie, is somehow being turned into the next best thing since (500) Days of Summer. (Similar sort of soundtrack, actually.)

But are you ready for the twist? (There’s got to be a twist, right?) In my indie-movie-life-documentary, my role….well, I’m certainly too clumsy to be the hip ingenue, aren’t I? It’s like the bumbling sidekick suddenly became the focus of the film.

It’s totally whacky and zany. It sure as shit ain’t gonna win an Oscar. But maybe, just maybe, it could be a darling at Cannes.

Probably not though, I mean, shit the only thing that happens in this movie is the lead character lies in bed on a Tuesday night, while her friends are out bowling, and types on a laptop about the voice she hears in her head saying something like “For the Next 30 Days, PeggyLuWho will toil under the burden of infatuation and anxiety, lose sleep, write more numerous and self-deprecating, naval gazing blogs than she has in the last two years, while trying to keep up with the endless adventures of best mates. Will she find true love and everlasting frienship? Will she listen to Regina Spektor or The Shins or Vampire Weekend on her iPod tonight?”

Why does this all sound so much more lovely when it’s happening in my head than it does in black and white on my macbook screen?

After everything that’s been going down, it was a fortunate thing that this last Sunday, Kayphore and Cookie and I had planned a little night out for ourselves. Of course, we had the typical evening of female bonding and enjoyed the traditional entertainment for such an occasion … Professional Wrestling. WWE Smackdown to be exact.

I am not a regular girl who likes regular things. I attract other girls with eclectic tastes. And by eclectic, I do mean, “of course I want to see overly muscled, nearly naked, poorly acting, greased up dudes roll around on the ground with other similar dudes.” Because really, who doesn’t love that?

Now I know what you’re thinking. I know because I hear it often enough. And I hear it often enough that I usually don’t mention that I enjoy the wrestling, like, ever…. to anyone. This has been a carefully guarded, deep, dark secret for quite some time. I’ve decided to bring it out into the light and show it off a little, because it really doesn’t make any sense to me that anyone could be befuddled by my enjoyment of such a thing. I mean, it’s gaudy. It’s ridiculous. It’s goofy. It makes no sense at all. It’s over the top. It’s laughable. It’s horrible. And damn it’s funny! I like professional wrestling like I like all those damn Bring It On movies. And The Cutting Edge franchise, as well. I’ve paid good money to go see Cool as Ice starring Vanilla Ice. And I’ve read those damn Twilight books and seen the movies, not because I’m on Team Jacob, or like things that Sparkle, but because they’re just bad.

Why, you ask? Because I’m a unique sort of person who gets enjoyment out of things that are, by definition, god awful. I love the things that are so bad that they’re good. I like not liking them. I like not being the least bit fooled by the pratfalls of professional wrestling. I like that Stephenie Meyer can’t write her way out of a paper bag. And yet, there’s something about it that’s sort of pure. I think that what really draws me to Crap is its lack of pretension. Bring It On is not aiming for high-brow, not trying to win a seat at the cool kids’ table, or looking down its nose at anyone. It just is what it is, and its ease with itself is infectious. When you’re watching WWE Smackdown at the Arco Arena, screaming at the Villains and hollering for the Good Guy, well, you can just be who you are.

All the better if you’re able to be with two of your best friends in the world, too. Two girls who love me for who I am, all my imperfections, my insecurities, my loud mouth, or my quiet, bashful, and nervous times. The ones who not only understand, but who share a few of my idiosyncracies.

And above all else, they can tell when I’m Acting Normal from when I’m being myself.

Of course I love professional wrestling. It’s so fake that you can’t help but be yourself when you watch it.